"Nineteen her last birthday," he said, as he put the picture back;
"and that was the day we were married. When you see her--ah, just wait
till you see her!"
"Where is she? When will she be in?"
"Oh, she's away now. She's gone to see her people. They live
forty or fifty miles from here. She's been gone two weeks today."
"When do you expect her back?"
"This is Wednesday. She'll be back Saturday, in the evening
--about nine o'clock, likely."
I felt a sharp sense of disappointment.
"I'm sorry, because I'll be gone then," I said, regretfully.
"Gone? No--why should you go? Don't go. She'll be disappointed."
She would be disappointed--that beautiful creature! If she had said
the words herself they could hardly have blessed me more. I was
feeling a deep, strong longing to see her--a longing so supplicating,
so insistent, that it made me afraid. I said to myself: "I will
go straight away from this place, for my peace of mind's sake."
"You see, she likes to have people come and stop with us
--people who know things, and can talk--people like you. She delights
in it; for she knows--oh, she knows nearly everything herself,
and can talk, oh, like a bird--and the books she reads, why, you would
be astonished. Don't go; it's only a little while, you know,
and she'll be so disappointed."
I heard the words, but hardly noticed them, I was so deep in my
thinkings and strugglings.
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